


Coronation

by jusrecht



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tsuna came to his inheritance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coronation

Ryouhei was there the day the Vongola Ninth was murdered.

Tsuna had called him, wisdom and maturity sculpted over years of growing crumbling faster than pillars of sand. _The Ninth,_ he said, rambled, words overlapping each other in a frantic hurry, hysterical almost. There was no beginning and end to sentences, not a pause for breath, and Ryouhei, for the first time in his life, had read between the lines.

He had not wasted a few earnest words to calm him down before speeding his car down the roads of Paris.

The entire twenty-six floors of the hotel was a battleground. He was two doors down, three seconds too late. The smell of gunpowder and fresh blood choked his lungs and the entrance to the Vongola’s suite was a rain of stray bullets. Ryouhei was extreme, and he knew most of the times he was dense enough to get himself killed, by accident or not, but he remembered Kyouko’s tearful smile at that moment, not Tsuna’s plea.

He waited, pressed to the wall, a few scant seconds of deafening drumrolls and heartbeats in his ears, minutes stretching to an end until the gunfire died down enough to allow him safe entry. His running steps faltered when he saw the crumpled body in pinstriped grey suit. The old, benign face told no story of pain, even if it was marred by an ugly hole that still betrayed a trickle of blood.

It was a moment of revelation, when Ryouhei stared at the expression of deep peace, a bullet grazing his left arm, why Tsuna had sounded as he had.

He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. Vengeance never took him long. There was more than enough purpose now to raise his fists and break his enemies’ bones. He fought differently, felt the weight of each kill more intensely, and did not falter.

His knuckles throbbed with pain when he landed the last blow. The floor was littered with bodies, they who had come knowing they would die. Vongola did not forgive, and this was the truth that ran riot in his head as he fished out his cell phone, blood dripping from the white bandage wrapped around his fist.

Silence picked up at the other end. “I failed,” he declared, his voice cracking slightly.

“How the fuck did you fail?” Gokudera was all wrath and venom, for once not the big bang and vicious storm he was notorious as, but the little brother of a poison mistress. There was certain deadness about his voice that pricked the corner of Ryouhei’s eyes. He scowled and gripped the phone tighter, struggling to keep his breath even.

That day marked a new age for Vongola, and the funeral of two men.

–

**2\. a bolt of lightning, followed by the gong that is thunder**

Fuuta cut a striking figure in an impeccable black suit amidst milling students in bright blue uniform. He stood with his back against a black Lamborghini, a sight to behold in the average-class neighbourhood. Many shot him curious glances, sprinkled with admiration from some of the girls and suspicion from others, although no one ever doubted what he was.

Lambo sighed, throwing a vaguely reassuring smile at a girl from his class, and approached the waiting man. He was greeted with a smile and a perfunctory question of ‘how was your day’.

Fuuta, Lambo had known from growing up under his teaching, had never worn black.

He slipped into the passenger seat and listened as his mentor explained, in short, concise sentences that lacked his regular kindness, about their situation. The old man’s death was not what shook him. It was the responsibility that he suddenly found thrust into his hands.

It would, sooner or later. He just hoped it was the latter.

When Fuuta finally glanced away from the traffic, the light just turning to green, he looked at him like a father would on the eve of sending his son to battle. “You are ready.”

Lambo gave him a wan smile – a nod was too much. Fuuta’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

–

**3\. a flood that washes everything away comes from above**

“How is Tsuna?”

The office was dark, every shaft of light from outside filtered by heavy velvet curtain, and smelled thickly of cigarette. Gokudera was standing with one hand propped on Tsuna’s massive desk, crowded with paper, his eyes no different than those of a ghost. “Asleep,” he answered shortly, words clipped slightly by the stick dangling between his teeth. The office lacked its vibrant colour with Tsuna’s absence, as did Gokudera’s voice. “Jyuudaime hasn’t slept for three days. There are too many things to sort out and he’s stubborn like that.”

Yamamoto shot him a small, wry smile. “And you?”

His efforts were ignored. “We’ve found out where they’re hiding, those bastards.” Gokudera tossed a bundle of paper onto the desk and thrust his hands inside his pants’ pockets, hiding the slight tremor Yamamoto’s quick eyes had nevertheless glimpsed. “I’d love to get my hands on them myself, but–”

“Your job is to stay here, at the boss’s side,” he interrupted and took the bundle to avoid looking at the other man. His face didn’t change as his eyes skimmed over mission details, and Tsuna’s signature at the end, sealed by the Vongola emblem.

“This is it?”

Gokudera took a long drag before answering. “They’re the ones directly responsible. Sasagawa got most of the first group, but the others managed to escape from the hotel. Find them. The rest of their family isn’t your business.” A pause, heavier than even the silence of the dead. “You know what to do.”

“Which you obviously don’t.” The bite was too tempting to resist. Gokudera speared him an icy look and Yamamoto made amends – _tried to_ – with a smile and a gentler tone. “Get some sleep. You’re useless to Tsuna if you can’t function well.”

“Fuck off.”

“Yes, yes.”

He might have laughed often at the world, but Yamamoto didn’t smile when he closed the door behind him.

–

**4\. they call it mist, that hides in the mountains**

She was sipping tea when she stumbled upon the news.

‘Stumbled’ wasn’t the right word. It made front page, complete with a close-up of the hotel under police’s spotlight to ensnare the readers’ attention, in case the gripping, bolded headline hadn’t done the trick. The press never held back at heralding disasters, especially when they occurred half a world away.

The death of a great Mafioso wouldn’t be exposed with much fanfare like a president’s or a world-renowned philanthropist's would. The obituary was a riddle each member of the underworld would have to unravel on his or her own. In this case, a hotel of twenty-six floors had become a crux of massacre, and the Vongola sweep-team hadn’t been fast enough to cover an incident of this magnitude. She connected a few dots and dipped her index finger into the scalding tea.

_It’s time._

“Mukuro-sama,” she breathed out, and then in. She unconsciously murmured the words, but there was little point to it. His ears heard her thoughts, not her voice, no matter how gentle and lovely it was.

When she returned to their apartment in a murky corner of a rural town in China, she found Ken and Chikusa lounging in the couch, the news of the hotel massacre blaring from the cheap television set in muted colours.

“We’re going home,” she said, her mouth dry.

They looked at her, Chikusa’s pale, indifferent eyes and Ken’s with his scorning expression, softened by years of seeing her bleed to master illusions beyond her talents. She hadn’t backed off, despite everything he, everyone had said, and Ken valued other things beside talent.

“I’ll see to the train and the flight,” Chikusa stood up and left with a click of the front door, ignoring Ken’s ‘hey, you’re leaving me to packin’ alone?’

Chrome breathed in deeply, and felt a little braver.

–

**5\. it isn’t a storm once it ceases to rage**

Perhaps, unconsciously, he had always been dreading this call. Gokudera stared at his cell phone, cradled between his stiff fingers, and wished, not for the first time in the last few days, that his job had been someone else’s.

But he remembered the Tenth, the tremulous smile he received every morning when they greeted each other in the office, and felt a familiar spark of revolt at the thought of anyone else in his shoes. With a frown and a new surge of resolve, he snapped the phone open.

“It’s done,” Yamamoto told him, a deeper, more dangerous undertone preying under the perpetual calmness of his voice. Gokudera thought that if anyone could ever _hear_ what blood sounded like, it probably would be something like the sound of Yamamoto’s voice.

“Is it,” he murmured, not a question. His breathing slowed. “Every single one of them?”

“That’s the order.” The other man sounded nothing short of nonchalant, even over the phone. Yamamoto was ruthless. He didn’t have that ordinary sense of mercy, those scruples for human’s life, despite what their boss believed. Often he wondered if it might come from living outside the box, treating their life as something a little different than it really was, for better or worse.

“Good.” Gokudera swallowed the nausea rising in his throat and terminated the line.

He didn’t have that privilege. He lived and breathed for Tsuna, nothing else.

–

**6\. there are just enough clouds to keep the earth under their shadows**

The last man standing crumpled to the ground with a dull thud. Hibari glanced at the smattering of blood left on his tonfa with faint distaste and turned around to see his second-in-command approaching, what used to be heavy, cumbersome steps now soundless across the field of grass.

“Where’s the other assault team?” he asked in a clipped tone, pretending not to see the astonishment on the other man’s face at his question.

“Kyou-san,” Kusakabe’s voice was urgent, demanding almost. “You’re going to be late if you don’t leave now.”

“I’m not going.”

“But it’s the–”

“Tetsu.”

“Yes, sir,” the short, dutiful reply arrived promptly, as it always had over the last eleven years. Hibari would have acknowledged it with a mocking smile, had the situation been more indulgent. Their time was limited and he had wasted more than he should have.

“Where’s the other assault team?” he repeated.

Kusakabe pretended to consult his small palmtop, face pursed into silent disapproval. They both knew he had it memorised the moment they had robbed the precious data from the first team, but Hibari let it slide for once. He had other things in mind, such as the new, interesting concepts which had taken roots in the last few days. He was the cloud, and those who targeted Vongola and its allies would not live long enough to see the sunset.

“A warehouse a few miles to the east, near the airport.”

He calculated between the pressure of time and many hurdles of distance, and then walked to the direction of his car, Kusakabe a loyal shadow on his heels.

“How many?”

“A couple of teams. More than a hundred men, possibly.”

A feral grin touched the curve of his lips. “Excellent.”

–

**7\. red and beautiful against the sky**

It was a little like a coronation, or walking into a mass.

When he set his feet in the meeting chamber, a reverent hush fell over the place. All his guardians were present except for one, and Reborn filled the empty slot, face sombre as he walked next to his father. Iemitsu looked anything but proud at the sight of his son stepping up to the throne.

Tsuna wasn’t sure how he felt as he slowly made his way to the head of the massive table. Dino’s smile from the first seat left to his was small and thin, a shade too detached to be encouraging. Tsuna thought he could understand, now. One of many things he had learned in the last few days was the effort it took, the price to smile when one had several thousand lives, both dead and alive, on one’s shoulders.

“Sit down,” Reborn murmured when he had paused next to his intended seat, unmoving, long enough. Tsuna felt his hands shake, just slightly, and remembered the Ninth’s funeral, only yesterday. A beautiful, solemn service, but he hadn’t cried – learned not to, because after all he had chosen between destroy and protect – not even when he had come home to the news of a mansion in Sicily, long since suspected as their enemies’ hideout, burned crisp to the ground.

He wondered if Xanxus had laughed when the fire had licked the first beam, if he was still laughing now – the most dangerous assassin in the world and someone who was probably much more suited than him to claim this inheritance if it wasn't for a few drops of Vongola blood – and silently took his seat.

“The Vongola Tenth, Sawada Tsunayoshi,” his father announced.

When he came to power, he had blood on his hands, and he knew why it felt a little like a funeral.  
  


 **End** **  
  
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